"Lorum." The thread of a voice was almost lost amid the moans of other prisoners, but Annemari heard the name that had been in her mind, took the flash from Chulayen and illuminated a section of cave wall where an emaciated man, taller and paler than the other prisoners, knelt in a puddle of filth.
"Montoyasana!"
"Lorum van Vechten . . . was the surgeon," Orlando Montoyasana said weakly. His eyes rolled. "It's coming back."
"What is coming back?" Annemari knelt beside Montoyasana and reached out a hand for the laserknife.
"Rainbow colors, they sound so sharp . . . Intrinsic disharmonies . . . I'm not mad." Montoyasana said. "Hallucinations. Infection in the cortex . . . oh, it sounds so bright," he moaned, and his eyes rolled up into the top of his head.
"Would you believe there are no flitters on this entire world?" Calandra burst back among them, her tight dark curls crackling with frustrated energy. "We'll have to ferry them back to Valentin one load at a time. It'll take forever, but they're making up a medical ward for them right now."
"Return trip," Maris said. "Don't waste it. You can bring back stuff we need here. People too."
"What—oh, right! Calandra, tell them we're bringing in the first group there, and they should have inflatable personnel carriers ready for you to bring back, and have them send a medic with whatever antibiotics they've got and, oh, whatever emergency medical supplies they can think of. We can start treating people here while the flitter shuttles cases to Valentin. Calandra, send half our people back with that first load, and tell them I'm putting Leutnant Eskelinen in command; he knows the local situation. Leutnant, you can draw a sidearm from one of my people, and if anybody in Valentin makes a move you don't like, you have my authority to neutralize them. Calandra, you go too. I want you to get on the ansible to Rezerval and tell them to send more flitters and a full division from Enforcement; the two squads I brought with me won't begin to do the job. We're going to place Valentin under military law until this mess is sorted out . . . Oh, hell. I need to keep somebody who speaks Kalapriyan here to interpret for us."
"I c'n try," Maris said shyly. "If they don't talk too fast."
"I'm not," Annemari said, "too worried about understanding what they have to say. I just want to be sure they understand me. Can you do that much? Good. Start with telling these people they are all—all—going to be freed and cared for, and that those who put them there will never have power over them again."
It took Maris a while to put that together in words from her extremely limited vocabulary, but perhaps, she thought, it wasn't such a bad idea to keep it simple. A lot of these people looked as if they were past handling complicated concepts. They worked down the line together, Annemari cutting the chains, Maris promising the freed prisoners they would be cared for, Calandra doing a rough triage on each wasted body. "For the first load we have to pick people who can sit in the flitter seats," she explained when Maris wondered why she was choosing the healthiest prisoners to go first. "After that we'll have carriers to immobilize them in comfortable positions, and we can start sending out the worst cases while the medics work on the others."
Maris nodded. "Okay, makes sense. But could you explain it to them?"
Calandra gave her a strange look. "Why don't you give it a try? You did well enough just now."
She painfully constructed another couple of Kalapriyan sentences, explaining to the prisoners why most of them would have to wait for a while. The verbs were all jumbled up, wrong tense and mood, but the people who still looked sane seemed to understand her okay. And Calandra nodded as she went along.
"Not bad," Calandra said when she finished. "You know, I thought on Tasman that you were just some gang kid trying to pick my credits, but maybe . . . are you a student or something? Language specialist?"
Maris felt her cheeks turning dark red. "You were right on Tasman. I ain't no student. Just . . . well, Diplos are s'posed to have implants so they can speak the language where they're going, right? And I was s'posed to be a Diplo . . . so I studied real hard, every chance I got."
"You did well."
"Not well enough," Maris said ruefully. "He caught on to me right away." She jerked her head toward the mouth of the cave, toward Gabrel.
"Did he indeed? Hmm . . . I wonder why he brought you so far upcountry, then?"
"Well, maybe he didn't catch on right at first," Maris allowed. "He thought mebbe I was some kinda baby Diplo, like somebody who'd been to the School all right but hadn't graduated yet."
"And you cheated the retinal and DNA scans that were supposed to check for my ID," Calandra said wonderingly. "Sometime you must tell me how you pulled that off."
Maris didn't really want to dub on her old pals on Tasman, so she murmured something noncommittal and pretended to be having a hard time making the Kalapriyan prisoners understand her. Fortunately they had nearly enough people to fill the flitter with its first load; a few minutes later the flitter was gone, and Calandra and Gabrel with it. Maris told herself that the sick empty feeling inside her was relief. Now she wouldn't have to evade Calandra's questions about how the Tasman gang had hacked the Federation database. Now she wouldn't have to apologize to Gabrel for lying to him all along.
"Only thing is," she muttered to herself, "what do I do now?"
"You can help get these people more comfortable," Annemari said at once, "and as soon as the flitter is back with medics, you can be a great deal of help by translating what they wish to ask the prisoners."
And after that, what? Well, it wasn't Annemari's problem. Wasn't anybody's problem but hers, really. And she'd been taking care of herself long enough, she had no business feeling daunted by the prospect now. She wasn't going to be too popular here on Kalapriya, she didn't suppose. And she could hardly go back to her old life on Tasman. But with the redoubtable Annemari's help, she could probably get through Tasman alive and go on to—well, anywhere else. Some place where nobody wanted to kill her; that would have to do for a start.
Chapter Eighteen
Rezerval
There were, of course, innumerable details to take care of. There were so many details that Annemari was seriously tempted to retreat into geek mode and write a program to handle it all.
"No computer program could possibly handle all the ethical and legal issues involved," Evert Cornelis told her when she voiced this threat. They were back in the Rezerval park, seated on Annemari's new favorite bench. Unlike the one in front of Hans Joriink's statue, it did not have such a good view of the central pond. But it had an excellent view of the new memorial statue of Orlando Montoyasana.
"Oh, I'm not so sure," Annemari said. "We humans haven't been doing so well with the issues, you know. A good neural network with intelligent heuristics . . . all right, all right, I'm just kidding!"
"Breed a better bacteriomat to solve problems," Evert suggested, and then, when Annemari looked interested, "No! Lorum van Vechten's brainchild has caused enough havoc already."
Remembering what van Vechten had done with his black-market 'mats, and how he'd cultured them, sobered them both. The full number of victims of the faulty 'mats would probably never be known; most families rich enough to buy illegal neurosurgery were also rich and powerful enough to conceal the disasters that followed. Annemari would never know for sure just how many cases like Tomi Oksanen's were discreetly locked away in closed wards for "nervous problems." But the ones who'd surfaced so far were enough fuel for a lifetime of nightmares. The 'mats were indeed adaptable far beyond the imaginations of anybody who'd worked with them. Given living human brains as a culture medium, they absorbed and replicated not only the basic structure of the brain but the experiences and feelings processed by that particular brain while the 'mats were growing on it. Fear, terror, sensory hallucinations, despair, fever, and insanity were carefully cultured in Udara's limestone caverns, carefully harvested and transported and eventually transplanted, with exquisitely careful neurosurgery, inside the skulls of those desperate enough to p
ay any price for the promise of a repaired nervous system. And once the 'mat was fully adapted to its new habitat, it set about enthusiastically reproducing its store of raw emotions and insane hallucinations for its new home.
"Pundarik Zahin threw himself over a cliff, when he realized the 'mat transplant was making him insane," Annemari said. "He must have been a brave man." With no knowledge of the medical science underlying his "cure," he had decided that Lorum van Vechten had implanted actual demons in his head. He had clung to life through agonizing days of insanity and uncontrollable muscular twitches, using his ever-briefer periods of clarity to write down what was happening to him and why. Only when the document was copied and safely deposited with two of his most trusted friends did he allow himself the release of death.
That document, together with the eyewitness testimony of those who'd been in the "cave of minds," provided enough information to justify the full Federation involvement that Annemari had asked Calandra to demand. The subsequent inquiry had brought on a wave of suicides, disappearances, and arrests of those not quick enough to take one of the other two ways out. The governing structure of the Barents Trading Society was decimated; four of the High Families that "owned" Rezerval had fallen; careers had been made and broken; and the claim of Barents to the world of Kalapriya had been unconditionally revoked.
"More exhausting than terrible, really," Annemari said now, thinking back over the cataclysmic changes her attempt to get a transplant for Niklaas had brought on.
"But when you found out about Zahin, you must have been terribly worried about Niklaas. After all, you'd left him at the clinic to get one of those same bacteriomat transplants—and I loaned you the money for it! I would never have forgiven myself if they'd done that to him, Annemari."
"Oh, I wasn't the least bit worried," Annemari told him. "You see, I didn't want them operating on Niklaas while I was away."
"Yes, but how could you be sure they wouldn't do just that?"
"I blocked the funds transfer. You see," Annemari explained, "you're quite right, I couldn't trust the Cassilis Clinic to abide by my wish for them to delay surgery. But I felt quite sure I could trust them not to do an operation that hadn't been paid for. After all, they weren't exactly in a position to recover the cost from my Federation health insurance package."
"No tickee, no washee?"
"Something like that." Actually Annemari had been almost suicidally worried about Niklaas once she found out about the effects of the black-market 'mats; what if her funds block hadn't worked for some reason? But if she confessed that to Evert, he'd just go all protective on her again, and that was the last thing she wanted. "So you see," she told him with a smile almost brilliant enough to disguise her secret sadness, "everything worked out all right. Niklaas didn't get a black-market 'mat, and I can give you back your money."
"Leaving you exactly where you were before all this started," Evert pointed out. "Don't you think you deserve better than that, Annemari? For personally bringing down a three-world criminal smuggling, torture, and prohibited-technology ring?"
Annemari shrugged. "I also broke a few rules along the way, and nobody's said anything about that either. I sort of figured the Federation had decided it all worked out all right—I don't get any rewards but I'm also not going to get busted down to datatech for bringing flitters and other pro-tech to Kalapriya."
"They could not logically punish you for that," Evert pronounced, "given that Lorum van Vechten and his colleagues in the Barents Trading Society were engaging in mass smuggling of far more destructive pro-tech devices."
"Dear Evert. And when has any government, anywhere, been logical?"
"This one certainly isn't," Evert said, "but with a little discussion in the right quarters, the right people can occasionally see reason. It has been decided that you are to receive the Hero of the Federation award."
"Oh?"
"It's a little silver star on a cobalt-blue background," Evert told her, "with the Federation logo in holographic rainbow silver over it."
"That sounds very nice," Annemari said, "I'm sure I have some evening outfits it'll go with . . ."
"Annemari, don't you ever ask the obvious question?"
"Always, when I can think of it," Annemari said. "I'm afraid this time the question escapes me."
"Aren't you interested in what goes with the award?"
"A ceremony, presumably."
"Better than that."
"A pension?"
"Better than that." Evert was openly grinning now. "Do you realize there have been only nine Hero of the Federation awards given in all of history? You're the tenth. And the other nine, like you, have been the kind of insanely disinterested people who can't really be rewarded by meeting the rich and famous, or being granted a pension, or being given a sinecure diplomatic position, or any of the other plums a government likes to hand out as minor favors. So instead, the Federation, in its infinite wisdom, decided that a Hero of the Federation gets one free pass."
"One what?"
"If, for instance," Evert explained, "you should ever want to murder someone, you could trade in your silver-and-blue dress accessory for an acquittal—in fact, you wouldn't even have to go to trial. Or if you wanted to get a dearly beloved relative off a quarantine world, or . . ."
Annemari felt something warm and beautiful glowing within her, bubbling with promise. "Tell me, Evert: do you think a Hero of the Federation could get somebody moved to the top of the 'mat transplant list with her one free pass?"
"I should think that would be well within the bounds of the rewards envisaged by the Federation," Evert said solemnly. "In fact, they will probably feel you are asking for too little. After all, the fifth Hero of the Federation, Hans Joriink, asked for sole possession of one of the moons of Daedalus . . . and got it."
"I don't want the moon and the stars," Annemari said. "Only a chance for Niklaas."
* * *
"Who, me?" Chulayen Vajjadara repeated.
"You cannot seem to say anything else these days," Madee commented. "Yes, Chulen, we want you to take temporary care of the Ministry for Lands and Properties. There will be some significant changes in the way the Ministry is organized, and somehow I doubt that the previous Minister and his subordinates have the necessary . . . er . . . flexibility of mind."
If those changes were anything like those that had swept over Udara in the weeks since his return from the Jurgan Caves, Chulayen doubted that anybody was flexible enough to deal with them. The confiscation of the Bashir's prohibited weapons had left his army powerless to resist revolts in Thamboon and Narumalar. While he was reeling from those blows, the Rohini resistance had risen and quickly toppled his regime. The Bashir and several of his ministers had fled, not quite believing in the Rohini promises of amnesty for anyone who surrendered. And the old lady he'd first known as a beggarly pancake vendor was currently in charge of organizing an interim government to keep essential state services running until elections could be organized for the new People's Democracy of Udara.
Chulayen had a strong feeling that the elections wouldn't make much difference to Madee's plans. If she had half as strong an effect on the general Rohini populace as she had on him, she would simply tell them who they wanted to vote for and the Ministers she had chosen would be confirmed in office by an overwhelming majority. The Rudhrani were too few to make a difference in a state with suffrage for all adults—and they grew fewer every day, as prominent families quietly disappeared from Udara to live in careful retirement on some distant estate.
Which meant that if he accepted this "temporary" appointment he would be in charge of the Ministry for Lands and Properties while the entire Udaran land ownership system was dismantled and rearranged to give every Rohini—and those Rudhrani who chose to stay—a working plot of cultivable land somewhere on the terraced hillsides of the mountain realm. Chulayen couldn't see Madee settling for anything less. And the magnitude of the task staggered him. The paperwork alone—
&n
bsp; "Grandmother, you want somebody older and more experienced for a position like that," he protested.
Madee nodded. "This is true. Unfortunately, we do not have anybody older and more experienced. For some reason, very few Rohini have any experience at all with government work. I'm afraid it'll have to be you, Chulen."
"If you can call our fine Rudhrani gentleman a true Rohini," put in Sonchai, who was, as usual, lounging in a corner to provide a sarcastic counterpoint to Madee's comments.
Sonchai's little sister slapped his face and ran to take Chulayen's hand before her brother could retaliate. "And who are you to say who is a good Rohini, brother?" she demanded. "He has lost more to the Ministry for Loyalty than you can even imagine. Why do not you take a wife, and get children, and see all but one murdered for your part in the resistance, and then perhaps you can talk about Rohini and Rudhrani!"
Sonchai's face reddened where Khati had slapped him. "You mean to hold it up to me that I could not protect you from the Bashir's lusts—"
"I never asked for your protection," Khati interrupted him. "I served the Resistance, and I am proud of it, even if you think our family shamed forever."
"You will please remember that it is now my problem to find a decent marriage for you, and if you think that will be easy now—"
"Children!" Madee clapped her hands once and they fell silent, glaring at her like sulky children indeed. "Enough of this foolish squabbling. You are both putting words into one another's mouths. Khati, go to the outer rooms; somebody needs to amuse Chulen's little daughter while we are settling this matter of the Ministry. Sonchai, if you were doing your job as my recording clerk, you would not have time to make so many sarcastic comments. Now get to work, both of you!"
Khati left, muttering things better not said clearly about her brother, and Madee turned to him. "Sonchai, record Chulayen Vajjadara as Minister pro tem of Lands and Properties, and—"
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